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Post by Lionel Waterman on Feb 15, 2010 20:56:58 GMT -5
USE YOUR HEAD. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
[/size][/font][/center] It was a late Thursday night, ten to ten, scarf weather, with dull-colored snow packed in shallow lumps against windowsills. Leo muscled his way through the crowd and took a seat on a bench near the doors. He rested an ankle on his knee and peered out of the theater lobby. The wind stormed up and down the dark streets in a rhythmic anger. Pedestrian chins sunk to chests and hands to pockets, shrinking into the dark folds of coats and wool. Every time someone opened the doors, the smell of the city crept in, a smell of smoke and ice, flashing with the yellowed lights of cars and motorcycles. Lionel undid a button his coat and massaged his spine with wandering fingers, his neck sore from craning. During the show, a long-necked man sat in front of him, obscuring the stage, and Anna, with tousles of unkempt hair; at one point, Lionel even earned a glare from a neighboring spectator for his 'rubbernecking'. He took a deep breath and glanced up at the opposite wall, eyes glazing over framed posters. 'King Lear', the titular character's mouth opened in a feral yell. 'Amadeus', with shadows cast over the chiseled face of a young man. 'Fiddler On The Roof', the silhouette of a hatted musician dancing atop a chimmney. The sharp orange lobby lights poured through his glasses and he squinted, his vision blurring. What would she be like now? It'd been a while, a long while, since they'd last met face to face. There'd been the occassional phone call and the unexpected letter, and now he was in Germany, watching her act again. She always looked different in person then she did onstage. When she performed, the lights flooded her wide, bright eyes, and suddenly she was no longer Anna, but a caricature, a dramatic persona, a 'someone else', and Anastasia became the mask. He imagined that she was older now, wearier with age, having lost some of her youthful exuberance. He was twenty-five, so she was... Come to think of it, he didn't recall her age. It wasn't something he'd considered. It seemed that as he grew older, the chasms grew wider. More 'dramatic', the way Anna liked it. Her performance that night was full of drama, full of powerfully delivered lines and a strong, sweeping voice. It was a voice he'd heard before in her plays. But Anna, had she changed? He folded his hands together and waited, musing to himself. [/blockquote] |
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Anastasia Lacusta
Eternal
The Masquerade Maiden[M:0]
→ hide your face, so the world will never find you!
Posts: 32
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Post by Anastasia Lacusta on Feb 28, 2010 16:41:50 GMT -5
The Show Shall Go On! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Oh, I'm so fucking nervous. What do I do? What do I say?! A beautiful brunette emerged into the scene in a beautiful emerald green gown, its fashion dating all the way back to the Dark Ages. Such succulent curves complimented the slimming dress and her hazel eyes only accented the overall appearance even more. What a memorizing woman! "You're right . . . what do you do, what do you say?", a smooth purr of an accent spilled into the brunette's ear, the woman who was given the role of Regan. The middle child of Lear and one of the two siblings who would profess vast amounts of love for her father - despite her eventual fate and further death. I only read the script, like, twice! I tried to learn the rest but my stupid boyfriend . . . Anastasia's brow twitched with sudden annoyance with the young girl; once having thoughts that she was a first time actress, so vivid and nervous to express her love for acting were proven wrong. "You don't like acting?" Samantha, that was her name, turned with a skeptical expression and giggled before turning back to the mirror to play with her newly fashioned hair design. No! I mean, who does now-a-days? That's really funny, Anna, it's not like anyone here enjoys it . . . all they want is a little razzle dazzle. Know what I mean? Oh, my. The eternal didn't respond but only provided a cheerful smile as if to agree with her response while secretly fuming with disdain, without another word she turned by the heel and escaped from the dressing room.
Figures passed and many spared a look to compliment the gown swishing to and fro from her figure, a tantalizing lavender attire to reveal herself as none other but Goneril. The eldest daughter of Lear. Vivid golden hues found the director's room in short time after passing through the curtains and lifelike props for the upcoming show, King Lear, opening the door with ease to find a withered figure of an older gentleman. "Joseph, I need a word with you." Tired, weary chocolate hues found the figure of Anastasia standing before him and as quickly such, those eyes brightened with life and a smile began to grow from ear to ear. Ah, Anastasia! - Urm, I mean, Goneril. What may I do for you? "I am not pleased with my sister, she doesn't recognize her lines and will surely place this whole performance into it's untimely death! Oh - how could you be so cruel to me? Allowing me to act with that burlesque of a whore!" Joseph, the director, blanched before giving a hearty laugh from the deep recesses of his belly and wiped a digit to his tearful piers. Why, Anastasi - "I don't know who you are speaking of, Joseph, my name is Goneril. Who is this Anastasia you speak of?" A long sigh escaped his mouth before he drew a large hand over his already exhausted expression, Whatever. Listen, I know - she is a terrible actress but I feel as if the crowd deserves more than those over aged women. We need physical attraction! Sex! I want those men in those seats to harden like ice cream caught in a snow storm!
Anastasia couldn't believe her ears. During his small rant, not a word escaped her plump and luscious red lips - even after a few minutes of silence. The director's gray head lifted to visualize how much displeasure he has cost one of his most favorite and best actresses, with a simple recline of his chair he withdrew a small water bottle. Don't worry too much about it, it's not like she'll outshine you. But here, give her this, she's been whining for something to drink for awhile now. With a simple toss the plastic bottle reached the hand of the dark skinned maiden and she turned away, leaving the room with a firm slam of the door. "Who does he think he is? This is a crime against Shakespeare himself! Oh . . . if only he were here, he would turn his grave if she shall ever witness this dark day of arts!" But why, does it certainly have to be this way? The Witch of Theater paused in step and coiled a few digits around the plastic water bottle, inspecting its clear contents before gazing around her surroundings. Many people were gone accessing the guests attending the play and left her quite alone to leave her to her own devices. Anastasia grinned, slipping a few slender digits into the contents of her secret compartment inside the gown to surface a slender vile filled with white powder. Anyone with eyes could realize that it was a dissolve poison used to bring the swift wings of death upon anyone in mere seconds. "Forgive me, sister, but this Kingdom of Theater belongs to me," Each word hushed with silence as she dabbed a few traces inside the water bottle, watching it disappear into the liquid. "and I haven't a plan to share this beautiful domain with you . . ."
Meanwhile, Samantha bustled through the dressing room for the final touches before becoming flooded into a pool of adoring actresses with smaller roles. They fawned her with attention and complimented each segment of her dress, personality and upcoming skills. Of course these woman were blocking such opportunities to have a minute alone and Anastasia quickly stepped into view. "My my, ladies! Give glory room to breath . . . shall we already discuss her future before it's even been made?" The young girls giggled and of course, scurried away to leave them in peace - Samantha's hazel eyes gazed her over to find the water bottle. Oh god, I am so thirsty! May I? Her smile wavered and of course, surrender the beverage before giving a small nod. "Yes, yes! You must be so thirsty and we only have a few minutes before the curtain calls." And not too soon either because the curtain boy came into the room and requested their company, leaving them both only seconds to become face to face with the crowd. King Lear stood proud yet old with his hand raised high, reciting the words of a contest to test how deeply his daughters truly loved him. Regal and Goneril made it just in time as they both slipped sheepishly into view, sparing a few seconds to await Regal finish a large gulp of water. Anastasia couldn't help but curl her full lips into a pleased smile, knowing it would only be a few hours before Samantha would fall.
The play of King Lear stretched on for the first two acts before the final scene went underway, when Regal would confess she were to marry Edmund. I shall marry Edmu - mnnng! Samantha's silhouette cringed with pain and suddenly fell to the floor, to anyone else adapting to the role of being poisoned eventually dying. Everyone who were involved with the play couldn't help but feel a secret emotion of pleasure, surprised and impressed with how this new girl performed her role so well. Anastasia knew the truth, though, watching the frail figure of her play sister with an amused grin; Goneril had poisoned Regal just as according to plan and Anastasia poisoned Samantha. It was beautiful it not amazingly accurate with how the poison slowly began to set it and indefinitely kill her in both the world of theater and reality. How long would it have taken for her playmates to notice her real death, for the crowd to realize her bosom shall never rise with life again? |
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Post by Lionel Waterman on Mar 3, 2010 4:49:40 GMT -5
USE YOUR HEAD.
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[/size][/font][/center] Lionel's hands rose from his thighs and he applauded; the auditorium filled with the clap of palms as the stage lights faded. The orchestra smoothed into a melancholic serenade, and he watched dark shapes move about onstage, preparing the next scene. The applause faded and soon the orchestra's interlude ended. The lights did not go back on; onstage, Lionel could make out several figures huddled around Regan's fallen silhouette. The audience began to murmur to themselves, a dark sound that swelled up and down the rows like a tide. Finally, a minute or two later, the lights came back on, and an actor -- King Lear, no less -- stepped onto the stage amidst an unfinished set consisting of half of a backdrop and a table. A burgundy puddle of spilt wine pooled next to the table leg, where Regan lay mere moments ago. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, his brow covered with sweat, "something... there has just been an emergency." He cleared his throat, a fist over his lips. "Unfortunately," he continued, his voice steadier, "we will have to cancel the remainder of tonight's performance. We deeply apologize for this inconvenience, and thank you for your patience, as well as your patronage. On behalf of the theater and everyone who performed tonight, I wish you all a safe trip home." With that, the man took a slight bow, and departed stage right. The auditorium lights filled the rows with yellow, and the crowd began to talk louder amongst themselves, confused and speculative. Lionel remained in his seat, frowning and thinking. He moved out with the crowd, the mush of hushed voices, every sentence spoken now a question or conjecture, and the bodies huddled in winter clothes. He tucked in his elbows and buttoned up his coat, and when the doors opened the frosty air slashed at his cheeks. With gentle pushes, he made his way out of the congested entrance and slipped into the nearest alleyway on the left, waiting for Anna to emerge from the backstage entrance. He stepped over moist newspaper, the wet pages half-pinned against the wheel of a dumpster. It didn't feel right, the moment Regan's body hit the stage. The sound was thick and sickening, full of force and crunch and that gasp she'd let out as she'd crumpled to the ground, a perfect impersonation -- and most likely a real one, as well. He'd seen the play before. He knew why Reagan died the way she did. But what'd happened in real life? His lips pursed, and there was Anna again, in the corner of his thoughts, smiling onstage with that mask of hers that she'd always wear, and that wine in a puddle by the table, goblet loosely in Regan's dead fingertips. He pushed up on the bridge of his glasses and stood a couple of feet from the door, waiting for Anna to emerge. [/blockquote] |
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